So I've taken some of your ideas and concocted the following Fun Thing (because YOU GUYS I NEED A FUN THING ON THE BLOG THIS WEEK):
1. Add ONE SENTENCE to the existing story. ONLY ONE.
2. The sentence must begin with THE NEXT LETTER OF THE ALPHABET.
3. IMPORTANT: YOU ARE ALLOWED TO SKIP "X".
4. Your sentence should reflect THE GENRE YOU WRITE IN.
5. Nevertheless, IT SHOULD MAKE ENOUGH SENSE THAT WE CAN FOLLOW THE STORY.
6. You may play more than once.
Basically, when we're finished, we'll have a multiple-genred masterpiece.
Pot sweetener: When we're finished, I will randomly draw one contributor's name to win a 3-page edit.
I will also publish the completed masterpiece as its own blog post.
We'll keep this up for 48-ish hours, okay? Let's say midnight Thursday is the official "the end".
MY OPENING SENTENCE IS IN THE COMMENT BOX. Go from there.
PLEASE NOTE: If you find that you've sat there a long time thinking, be sure to REFRESH THE PAGE. Because someone else may have added a sentence while you were listening to your muse.
IF THERE ARE 2 SENTENCES STARTING WITH THE SAME LETTER, I WILL DELETE THE SECOND ONE. If I haven't gotten around to deleting it and it's your turn, please refer to THE FIRST SENTENCE BEGINNING WITH THAT LETTER.
Capiche?
If you have any questions, please tweet them to me, so that we can reserve this comment box for the story alone.
(Note to email subscribers: please remember that you need to GO TO THE BLOG to participate.)
On your mark...
Miss Snark's First Victim
Showing posts with label writing game. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing game. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
And Our Free E-Book Winner Is:
SOLVANG SHERRIE!
Solvang, please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com to let me know where to send your PDF of Agent: Demystified.
And just for fun, here's the entire, convoluted tale:
The jar slipped from Vila's icy fingers and shattered on the cobblestone terrace. Its contents, once liquid, turned to a noxious, purple vapor as soon as they hit the air. Vila couldn't have chosen a worse time to call attention to her presence.
Jumping back into the shadow of the large potted plant, Vila hoped that the vapor would waft out into the night air. That was too much to hope for. A breeze sent the noxious gas toward the guard. She hadn't enough spellcasting to defend herself properly. If they found her now, they would hold her until he returned. If he recognized her as the earthbound encantation of his lost love, There would be hell to pay, and Vila just didn’t have time for hell right now.
Wait just a second—a breeze? The night air was still, and at this time of year there shouldn’t have been any breezes. What in Goram’s name caused that swirling of leaves and sandlewood smoke? Vila risked a peek. There was a shadow there, a shadow that looked suspiciously familiar.
"Hitht" she whispered, trying to avoid the sibilant 's' which would alert the guard. "What in Dion'th name are you doing?"
Hist straightened his four foot figure and flourished his black cloak as he bowed. "Actually, it ith in Dion'th name. He athked me to ethcort you in. That ith why I'm wafting your vapor to the guard, that he maycome over here and give you a proper greeting."
"What?" Vila said, a little too surprised, and a little too loud. Her hands clapped over her mouth, but it was too late. The guard's head swiveled towards her hiding place inside the enormous laundry basket. He stepped forward to jab it with the hilt of his sword, but then stopped. A giant turtle rounded the basket, its tree-trunk like legs explaining the loud clomps.
Vila exhaled quietly, and Hist said, "You're supposed to ride the turtle through the front gate, turn right by the fountain--or was it left?--and then take the stairs to the fourth floor."
"Turtles can't climb stairs," Vila snapped.
"And why not?" the turtle said with a heavy Jersey accent.
Vila blinked but shrugged. Careful to stay behind the turtle's shell so the guard wouldn't spot her, she boosted herself up, just as Hist let out a loud whistle.
The turtle sprinted forward and leaped off the edge of the balcony, landing a short time later in the middle of Mamie Cottonwood's drawers, which Mamie had left on the clothesline after Jake whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She couldn't wait for Jake to see her in the drawers, as they were the sexist thing this side of the farm.
“So, hey, whaddabout goin’ back ta Joisy?”
“I thought we were going to see Doith?”
“Oh, who the heck knows what we’re doing now?!”
Just then a loud crack rang out in the darkened woods, followed by a high-pitched giggling shriek. It appeared that Mamie wasn't the only one getting lucky tonight.
Vila held her breath as a pair of maids swept past, smelling distinctly of molasses.
"Hoith will be very displeased if we don't get him his pumpkin pie for dinner," one of the moaned.
"If you hadn't been so clumsy you'd not have spilled all our molasses the other said. She gave the girl a friendly swat.
Vila lowered herself further on the giant turtle's back. The witches ball would run smoothly, whether or not she made it to school in time or not. But oh how she wanted to make it at least in time for the “reveal.” She had worked too diligently, deprived herself too long, called in too many favors to miss out on something as important as this. She remembered last year only too well, the year she inexplicably found herself in the middle of a noir detective thriller. Oddly, that story had turned out well, convincing her sometimes it was best to go with the literary flow. She shook her head, smiling. The life of a character actor was forever changing. She smiled at the director as he yelled, "Cut!"
"How did that take go?"
The director frowned. As much as he liked Vila, her acting ability was not the caliber he had expected from a girl with forty-three movies under her belt.
"Fine," the director snapped, flipping his cape off his left shoulder. "Someone clean up this vile mess, we're doing another take."
Vila pouted. Her fingers were frozen. If they did another take she'd never play the viola again. She stuck her fingers under her armpts. Ewww. How could she be cold and sweating? Who wrote this piece-of-crap sceenplay? Where was Josh Wheedon when you needed him? She'd bet her Pradas that Buffy the Vampire Slayer wouldn't sweat,and she'd have better weapons and better hair and a more virile costar not to mention back lighting.
She tossed her wig into the potted plant and stripped down to her undies, taking the dare to embarrass the director to a whole new level. She tossed her digital copy of AGENT DEMYSTIFIED aside, ready to make the best blooper reel this director had ever seen. Tomorrow she was going literary agent shopping, today she had a director to deal with, and Spanx to buy. She really needed to govern her impulses. Tummy tuck-less, she stalked to the drector. Her heels snapped on the concrete, as she circled around her prey. The best way to start her revenge was to knock him off kilter, publicly.
"Oh, Sven?"
All eyes focused on her, especially his.
She licked her lips. "Does my contract specify casting couch five or casting couch six? Cause that corduroy upholstery on five smells like a skunk had babies on it. Someone needs to drop a serious load of Febreeze on that thing. So," she said, looking from under her two-inch lashes, "who do I talk to about getting better treatment around here? My agent or the skunk on couch five?"
Someone snickered and Sven scowled. "I'm afraid you've overestimated yourself, Vila." Nonchalantly he eyed her up and down and then shrugged. "You might like casting couch seven better. It has a whirling dervish instead of a gall bladder, but I don't understand what that means."
"You don't need to, it's a figure of speech."
"I think you're confusing it with a metal four."
"No, that doesn't sound right. Where's the dictionary?"
“The dictionary?” Sven said, casting around wildly.
“Yes, the dictionary.”
The poor woman trying to apply make-up to Vila’s dripping face said, “Won’t the scriptwriter have one?”
“Unlikely,” Vila said, “if he did, this script would be in much better
Solvang, please email me at facelesswords(at)gmail.com to let me know where to send your PDF of Agent: Demystified.
And just for fun, here's the entire, convoluted tale:
The jar slipped from Vila's icy fingers and shattered on the cobblestone terrace. Its contents, once liquid, turned to a noxious, purple vapor as soon as they hit the air. Vila couldn't have chosen a worse time to call attention to her presence.
Jumping back into the shadow of the large potted plant, Vila hoped that the vapor would waft out into the night air. That was too much to hope for. A breeze sent the noxious gas toward the guard. She hadn't enough spellcasting to defend herself properly. If they found her now, they would hold her until he returned. If he recognized her as the earthbound encantation of his lost love, There would be hell to pay, and Vila just didn’t have time for hell right now.
Wait just a second—a breeze? The night air was still, and at this time of year there shouldn’t have been any breezes. What in Goram’s name caused that swirling of leaves and sandlewood smoke? Vila risked a peek. There was a shadow there, a shadow that looked suspiciously familiar.
"Hitht" she whispered, trying to avoid the sibilant 's' which would alert the guard. "What in Dion'th name are you doing?"
Hist straightened his four foot figure and flourished his black cloak as he bowed. "Actually, it ith in Dion'th name. He athked me to ethcort you in. That ith why I'm wafting your vapor to the guard, that he maycome over here and give you a proper greeting."
"What?" Vila said, a little too surprised, and a little too loud. Her hands clapped over her mouth, but it was too late. The guard's head swiveled towards her hiding place inside the enormous laundry basket. He stepped forward to jab it with the hilt of his sword, but then stopped. A giant turtle rounded the basket, its tree-trunk like legs explaining the loud clomps.
Vila exhaled quietly, and Hist said, "You're supposed to ride the turtle through the front gate, turn right by the fountain--or was it left?--and then take the stairs to the fourth floor."
"Turtles can't climb stairs," Vila snapped.
"And why not?" the turtle said with a heavy Jersey accent.
Vila blinked but shrugged. Careful to stay behind the turtle's shell so the guard wouldn't spot her, she boosted herself up, just as Hist let out a loud whistle.
The turtle sprinted forward and leaped off the edge of the balcony, landing a short time later in the middle of Mamie Cottonwood's drawers, which Mamie had left on the clothesline after Jake whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She couldn't wait for Jake to see her in the drawers, as they were the sexist thing this side of the farm.
“So, hey, whaddabout goin’ back ta Joisy?”
“I thought we were going to see Doith?”
“Oh, who the heck knows what we’re doing now?!”
Just then a loud crack rang out in the darkened woods, followed by a high-pitched giggling shriek. It appeared that Mamie wasn't the only one getting lucky tonight.
Vila held her breath as a pair of maids swept past, smelling distinctly of molasses.
"Hoith will be very displeased if we don't get him his pumpkin pie for dinner," one of the moaned.
"If you hadn't been so clumsy you'd not have spilled all our molasses the other said. She gave the girl a friendly swat.
Vila lowered herself further on the giant turtle's back. The witches ball would run smoothly, whether or not she made it to school in time or not. But oh how she wanted to make it at least in time for the “reveal.” She had worked too diligently, deprived herself too long, called in too many favors to miss out on something as important as this. She remembered last year only too well, the year she inexplicably found herself in the middle of a noir detective thriller. Oddly, that story had turned out well, convincing her sometimes it was best to go with the literary flow. She shook her head, smiling. The life of a character actor was forever changing. She smiled at the director as he yelled, "Cut!"
"How did that take go?"
The director frowned. As much as he liked Vila, her acting ability was not the caliber he had expected from a girl with forty-three movies under her belt.
"Fine," the director snapped, flipping his cape off his left shoulder. "Someone clean up this vile mess, we're doing another take."
Vila pouted. Her fingers were frozen. If they did another take she'd never play the viola again. She stuck her fingers under her armpts. Ewww. How could she be cold and sweating? Who wrote this piece-of-crap sceenplay? Where was Josh Wheedon when you needed him? She'd bet her Pradas that Buffy the Vampire Slayer wouldn't sweat,and she'd have better weapons and better hair and a more virile costar not to mention back lighting.
She tossed her wig into the potted plant and stripped down to her undies, taking the dare to embarrass the director to a whole new level. She tossed her digital copy of AGENT DEMYSTIFIED aside, ready to make the best blooper reel this director had ever seen. Tomorrow she was going literary agent shopping, today she had a director to deal with, and Spanx to buy. She really needed to govern her impulses. Tummy tuck-less, she stalked to the drector. Her heels snapped on the concrete, as she circled around her prey. The best way to start her revenge was to knock him off kilter, publicly.
"Oh, Sven?"
All eyes focused on her, especially his.
She licked her lips. "Does my contract specify casting couch five or casting couch six? Cause that corduroy upholstery on five smells like a skunk had babies on it. Someone needs to drop a serious load of Febreeze on that thing. So," she said, looking from under her two-inch lashes, "who do I talk to about getting better treatment around here? My agent or the skunk on couch five?"
Someone snickered and Sven scowled. "I'm afraid you've overestimated yourself, Vila." Nonchalantly he eyed her up and down and then shrugged. "You might like casting couch seven better. It has a whirling dervish instead of a gall bladder, but I don't understand what that means."
"You don't need to, it's a figure of speech."
"I think you're confusing it with a metal four."
"No, that doesn't sound right. Where's the dictionary?"
“The dictionary?” Sven said, casting around wildly.
“Yes, the dictionary.”
The poor woman trying to apply make-up to Vila’s dripping face said, “Won’t the scriptwriter have one?”
“Unlikely,” Vila said, “if he did, this script would be in much better
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
The Pre-Thanksgiving AGENT: DEMYSTIFIED Giveaway!
...also known as THE MAMMOTH COMMENT-BOX STORY.
Entering the free e-book giveaway is simple: Add your FORTY WORDS to the ongoing story. You may add to the story as often as you'd like, but your name will only be entered once.
The contest begins NOW and will end at 10:00 am EST on Wednesday. I will then post the winner (drawn at random).
BONUS: If we reach 150 comments by the end of the 24-hours, I will give away TWO copies of AGENT: DEMYSTIFIED!
The 40-word limit is firm. STOP AT WORD 40 EVEN IF IT'S IN THE MIDDLE OF A SENTENCE. The next person will pick up where you've left off.
Here is the beginning of the story:
The jar slipped from Vila's icy fingers and shattered on the cobblestone terrace. Its contents, once liquid, turned to a noxious, purple vapor as soon as they hit the air. Vila couldn't have chosen a worse time to call attention
Entering the free e-book giveaway is simple: Add your FORTY WORDS to the ongoing story. You may add to the story as often as you'd like, but your name will only be entered once.
The contest begins NOW and will end at 10:00 am EST on Wednesday. I will then post the winner (drawn at random).
BONUS: If we reach 150 comments by the end of the 24-hours, I will give away TWO copies of AGENT: DEMYSTIFIED!
The 40-word limit is firm. STOP AT WORD 40 EVEN IF IT'S IN THE MIDDLE OF A SENTENCE. The next person will pick up where you've left off.
Here is the beginning of the story:
The jar slipped from Vila's icy fingers and shattered on the cobblestone terrace. Its contents, once liquid, turned to a noxious, purple vapor as soon as they hit the air. Vila couldn't have chosen a worse time to call attention
Monday, September 15, 2008
Flex Your Writing Muscles: TROCHAIC QUADRAMETER
We're going to write a group poem. Let's see how far we get! (Come one, come all -- lots of talent here! Don't be shy.)
Quick refresher:
Trochaic = a 2-beat poetic foot with the first syllable accented (DA-dum)
Quadrameter = 4 poetic feet per line
So Trochaic Quadrameter sounds like this:
DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum
or DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum DAA
Okay?
I will write the first 2 lines in the comment box.
Each participant must write the next two lines.
So that each stanza will have been written by 2 people.
Rhyme pattern will be ABCB.
Clear as hot cocoa? Let's play!
Quick refresher:
Trochaic = a 2-beat poetic foot with the first syllable accented (DA-dum)
Quadrameter = 4 poetic feet per line
So Trochaic Quadrameter sounds like this:
DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum
or DA-dum DA-dum DA-dum DAA
Okay?
I will write the first 2 lines in the comment box.
Each participant must write the next two lines.
So that each stanza will have been written by 2 people.
Rhyme pattern will be ABCB.
Clear as hot cocoa? Let's play!
Monday, August 4, 2008
Wake Up! Play the Monday Thirty-Word String Story Game With Me...
Party in the Comments Box!
(Okay, so maybe I don't feel like cutting and pasting anything this week. Something tells me you're all going to give me a little grace here.)
Ahem. There's a lot of talent represented in my readership! So I'm eager to see you have some fun with words. Here's how to play:
Read what's been written so far. Write THE NEXT 30 WORDS. No more, no less. No period if you haven't come to the end of a sentence yet. No end quotes if the dialogue has broken off in the middle. 30 words. And make them flow naturally out of the preceding words.
Oh, and one more thing: Your 30 words MUST contain one of the following words:
PITHY
TREMULOUS
SPRECHSTIMME
UNDULATE
CARIBOU
GOURD
REDACT
CANDID
JALEPEÑO
GROMMET
FLUSTER
CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP
Yes, you may choose a word that's already been used by someone else -- but not a word that has been used in the 30-word segment right before yours.
Do you think we can shoot for a 1500 word story? That would mean 50 comments.
I will start the story in the comment box, to keep things all together.
Okie dokie? Show me your stuff!
(Okay, so maybe I don't feel like cutting and pasting anything this week. Something tells me you're all going to give me a little grace here.)
Ahem. There's a lot of talent represented in my readership! So I'm eager to see you have some fun with words. Here's how to play:
Read what's been written so far. Write THE NEXT 30 WORDS. No more, no less. No period if you haven't come to the end of a sentence yet. No end quotes if the dialogue has broken off in the middle. 30 words. And make them flow naturally out of the preceding words.
Oh, and one more thing: Your 30 words MUST contain one of the following words:
PITHY
TREMULOUS
SPRECHSTIMME
UNDULATE
CARIBOU
GOURD
REDACT
CANDID
JALEPEÑO
GROMMET
FLUSTER
CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP
Yes, you may choose a word that's already been used by someone else -- but not a word that has been used in the 30-word segment right before yours.
Do you think we can shoot for a 1500 word story? That would mean 50 comments.
I will start the story in the comment box, to keep things all together.
Okie dokie? Show me your stuff!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Monday Fun: The 10 Word Story
Wanna play?
Post your 10-word story in the comment box.
Give it a title, and then make sure the story is exactly ten words long.
Let's see how creative we can be on a Monday morning.
I'll go first:
"Marital Bliss"
Out of condoms.
Just this once.
Uh-oh.
It's a boy.
Post your 10-word story in the comment box.
Give it a title, and then make sure the story is exactly ten words long.
Let's see how creative we can be on a Monday morning.
I'll go first:
"Marital Bliss"
Out of condoms.
Just this once.
Uh-oh.
It's a boy.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Writing Game! Wanna Play??
Need a break from your WIP that will serve to sharpen your mind a bit? Join us for a round of GENRE SWITCH.
The rules:
1. Read the story as it appears so far.
2. Write EXACTLY 100 WORDS to continue the story not including the word "a". Even if that means stopping in the middle of a
3. When you write your 100 words, SWITCH THE GENRE of the story. Try to do this without being too abrupt.
4. Do not repeat a genre that's already been used unless three new genres have occurred since then.
5. Tongue-in-cheek is fine, if not preferred.
6. Keep the MC consistent, regardless of what's going on around him/her (or happening to him/her). Attempt to develop the MC in the ever-changing context of the story.
7. We'll just keep going until it fizzles out -- or until somebody writes a really good ending.
OK?
Here we go:
Krista slipped through the velvet draperies and approached the coffin as though this were something she did every day. Trying not to let her eyes fall on the corpse, she studied the surroundings, looking for a place to set her tripod.
"The lighting's too dim," she said to the quiet woman arranging flowers nearby. "Can I get some more light in here?"
"The family requested candlelight," the woman said.
"The family also requested photos of the deceased, and I assume that means they'd like to be able to see what's in them."
Not that this wasn't the strangest assignment of her
The rules:
1. Read the story as it appears so far.
2. Write EXACTLY 100 WORDS to continue the story not including the word "a". Even if that means stopping in the middle of a
3. When you write your 100 words, SWITCH THE GENRE of the story. Try to do this without being too abrupt.
4. Do not repeat a genre that's already been used unless three new genres have occurred since then.
5. Tongue-in-cheek is fine, if not preferred.
6. Keep the MC consistent, regardless of what's going on around him/her (or happening to him/her). Attempt to develop the MC in the ever-changing context of the story.
7. We'll just keep going until it fizzles out -- or until somebody writes a really good ending.
OK?
Here we go:
Krista slipped through the velvet draperies and approached the coffin as though this were something she did every day. Trying not to let her eyes fall on the corpse, she studied the surroundings, looking for a place to set her tripod.
"The lighting's too dim," she said to the quiet woman arranging flowers nearby. "Can I get some more light in here?"
"The family requested candlelight," the woman said.
"The family also requested photos of the deceased, and I assume that means they'd like to be able to see what's in them."
Not that this wasn't the strangest assignment of her
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